


Home

by JoAsakura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-20
Updated: 2012-01-20
Packaged: 2017-10-29 20:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Reichenbach Fall, John Watson has a homecoming, of sorts.</p><p>Just a little thing, rattling around in my brain. ^^;</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

It was weeks before John could sleep in their flat again.

The feeding frenzy of the press had died down and he told himself it was safe to go home again.

But really, John thought. He wasn't even kidding himself. It had nothing to do with the press and everything to do with the empty chair across from his in the sitting room. Everything to do with the oppressive silence in the house and the cleaned off kitchen table. Everything to do with texts he sent out of habit that would never be replied to.

It was an emptiness that wasn't filled by Lestrade's weekly visits to make sure he was alright, or by the angry posts pounded out on his laptop, only to be deleted.

He and Mrs. Hudson had visited the grave that morning and John couldn't remember the ride home. One minute he had been in the cemetery, talking to sherlock's headstone and the next, he was back at the flat, staring at nothing. He was sure he and Mrs. Hudson had chatted in the cab on the way back. Sure he had looked out at the passing scenery, but it just wasn't there.

God, he was tired.

~~

It was dark out when he woke up, sitting bolt upright with the momentary clutch of fear that accompanies waking up in an unfamiliar place. (this isn't my room) he thought.

It was Sherlock's. Cluttered in the sort of way that indicated he'd known where everything was and god help the fool who disturbed his organisational system. John sighed and flopped back down on the bed. (I am such a fool.) he sighed, rolling over to bury his face in the pillow.

It smelled like him.

John rolled back, still holding onto the pillow. It smelled of some alchemical brew of furtive cigarettes, acrid chemicals that were no doubt banned in most western countries and the blend of soap and body chemistry that had been uniquely Sherlock's.

It smelled like home.

~~

The longer they'd lived together, the more John had thought about it. Irene had only kicked it firmly to the forefront of his attention. What Sherlock's scent would have tasted like in his mouth.

But it had been easy enough to put aside. Whatever the detective's previous experience in the arena of carnal relations had been, he'd seemed uninterested in the act as a whole. It was obviously less engrossing than cataloging 240 kinds of tobacco. (243, Sherlock's voice in the back of his head dryly reminded him) And their lives were never dull.

But John knew what they'd had had been unique.

What if he'd asked? what if he'd made the move that Irene Adler had nudged in his brain?

~~

John hadn't quite realised what he was doing until he came, hot and messy over his hand and his stomach.

with a groan, he set the pillow aside and rubbed his eyes with his less-sticky hand. "Damnit." He stared up at the ceiling and sighed. "Damnit, Sherlock."

"Come home."


End file.
